Cyberpunk: 2075

Wild Wolf Bar, located in Heywood's Glen area, wasn't hard to spot. Among the municipal buildings like City Hall, the Mayor's Office, courthouses, and NCPD headquarters, the bar stood out like a sore thumb—its rough, unpolished appearance clashing completely with its surroundings.

After parking the car on the roadside, Oliver hesitated about whether or not to put on the bulletproof vest he had bought after splitting their earnings yesterday. Having grown up in 6th Street territory and as a "former" member of the gang, he still felt uneasy about stepping onto Valentino turf, even though he kept saying plenty of 6th Street members had good private relationships with them.

Who knew if the Valentinos hanging out in this bar might decide to kill him purely because of his past ties to 6th Street?

While Oliver hesitated, Carl had already slipped on his own bulletproof vest under his clothes, wasting no time.

Once ready, Carl glanced at Oliver, confused.

"What's the holdup? We're about to go look for an employer. Showing up without basic protection—no cyberware, no bulletproof vest—just screams unprofessional. If I were the one hiring, I'd think you were a total idiot."

Fair enough.

Oliver realized his old mindset, shaped by life in Santo Domingo, was clouding his judgment. Back when he was just a civilian or a gang member in 6th Street's home turf, there wasn't much need for constant vigilance.

But now? They were mercenaries.

And as mercenaries, showing off your gear and looking competent was just as important as the work itself.

They weren't legendary edgerunners who could stroll into a fight wearing a shirt, a pistol in one hand, and nothing else but swagger. No, those guys had clients chasing them, not the other way around.

Oliver quickly put on his bulletproof vest and layered a jacket over it. He slipped his trusty revolver, New Star, into his holster. Instead of fastening it shut, he left it loose, just like in the action movies, allowing him to draw quickly while letting others see the grip and recognize the model.

"Real men carry New Stars. Packs a punch," Oliver thought smugly.

Carl, meanwhile, kept things simple. He holstered his Lexington, considered bringing one of the Copperhead assault rifles from the trunk, but decided against it.

They were heading to a bar, not storming a compound. Carrying a rifle would feel like asking for trouble.

With their preparations done, the pair walked into the Wild Wolf Bar under the curious gazes of Valentino street members hanging around outside.

As they stepped inside, the first thing they noticed was the dim lighting.

Unlike the streets outside, cluttered with flashy advertisements and neon signs, the bar had a minimal setup. A few dim fluorescent lights illuminated the space, and the bar counter was the only brightly lit area.

Clusters of people were scattered around, drinking and chatting.

The bartender stood behind the counter—a silver-haired, sharp-eyed woman in a leather jacket. Despite her age, she radiated an air of energy and confidence. At first glance, if not for her hair, one might not even notice her age.

"Oh, two unfamiliar faces," she said, greeting Carl and Oliver with a friendly smile.

"You're a bit early, but you're always welcome. What can I get you two?"

"Mrs. Welles, bring me another bottle of Blue Vodka!"

Before Carl or Oliver could respond, a voice called out from a table in the back.

A man seated there waved his hand, signaling for another drink.

"No way, Ernesto. You've already had a whole bottle today. Don't you have stuff to do later? Go sober up."

"Come on, señora, I was planning to have another drink with Jackie when he gets back!"

"Jackie won't be drinking either."

As the woman, known as Mrs. Welles, spoke with the Valentino gang member who clearly had a love for his liquor, Carl overheard a name that felt incredibly familiar.

Jackie?

Could it be that Jackie? Jackie Welles?

If it was the Jackie Carl was thinking of, he definitely knew the guy. In the demo, Jackie had been V's loyal brother-in-arms and teammate.

It's probably just a coincidence, Carl thought.

Jackie was a pretty common name, after all.

While Carl pondered, Mrs. Welles turned back toward them.

"So, what can I get for you two, kids?"

"I'll have a bottle of Two-Brothers Lager," Oliver replied without hesitation, choosing a light beer that wouldn't interfere with work.

"Alright, one lager. And you?"

Faced with the kind and approachable gaze of Mrs. Welles, Carl scanned the menu on the bar, his eyes catching on something with Chinese characters.

"I'll have a sweet tea and a side of fries."

"Alright then, grab yourselves a seat. I'll bring it over in a bit," Mrs. Welles said, nodding as she turned toward the bar to start preparing their orders.

Oliver tugged Carl toward a table where they could keep an eye on the entrance.

"You come to a bar and order a non-alcoholic drink and fries? Man, I wish I could be as relaxed about this as you."

Unlike Carl, Oliver actually preferred non-alcoholic drinks but felt obligated to order beer because, well, it's a bar.

"I can share some of my fries if you want."

"Deal. I'll steal some of yours and then order my own after. Fries are my weakness."

"I'm just curious about what they're actually made of."

As long as they weren't made from bugs, Carl could handle it.

While waiting, the two scanned the room, noticing most of the patrons were just regular drinkers. A small handful of people stood out, wearing bulletproof vests or visibly enhanced with subdermal armor—mercs like them, likely waiting on work.

At least Oliver's dad was right—this bar seemed like a spot to pick up jobs. But looking at the clientele, it was clear these were bottom-tier mercs, probably without any connections to fixers.

Oliver lowered his voice. "Let's be real—fixers are like mercs themselves. You've got the top-tier ones dealing in corporate-level jobs, then the ones handling local grudges and petty street crimes. But to end up like these guys, without even a low-level fixer to back you up? That's rock bottom."

Completely oblivious to the fact that he and Carl were in the same boat, Oliver went on.

"Who knows," Carl replied absentmindedly, glancing toward the bar's entrance.

Someone walking in had caught his attention—someone who looked familiar.

The man entering was a towering figure, broad enough to block out the sunlight pouring through the door. His dark braids hung down his back, his face bore the scars of obvious cyberware enhancements, and his open leather jacket revealed a chest covered in tattoos.

The guy exuded a presence that screamed, Don't mess with me.

It was him.

Jackie Welles.